


Two Days Of Difference

by Aspenaire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink, AU, Fight Club - Freeform, Gen, Mental Illness, Solving crimes, Texting, murder investigation, strangeness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspenaire/pseuds/Aspenaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a foggy, rainy evening in London. Sherlock is bored, murders do not murder, John is missing, and nothing is what it really seems.<br/>Strangeness and texting ensue, along with some Fight Club references. (during A Study In Pink episode)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Days Of Difference

5.  
Wednesday, three in the morning: five nicotine patches on each arm, rain, two cups of tea on the table, uncooked rice in the sink, Mrs Hudson storming out of the apartment, screaming.

Sherlock is staring at the ceiling, enjoying the pleasant tingling in his fingertips. He tightens the grip on his cellphone, fighting the urge to text Lestrade. Only two words, YES or NO, are echoing in his head, like a persistent ticking of the clock. After an hour his eyes hurt. 

_I am Sherlock’s irresistible need to examine a bloody, interesting crime scene_ , reads the message. His index finger caresses the ‘send’ button, like he can’t really decide if he really wants it. What’s stopping him? Exactly on a night like this, when it’s raining and he’s so bored, murderers should murder.

“Sherlock, a murder isn’t something you can just order like a pizza”.

His phone vibrates.

57, Oxford St. Break-in, three bodies, come at once. Lestrade.

Sherlock tears off the nicotine patches and rises to his feet. The teacups freeze slowly, until the liquid turns to ice.

 **1.**  
Late afternoon: the apartment, Mycroft’s tea cooling off in the icy air, Sherlock playing the violin, filling the silence between them.

“Have you found a roommate yet? You shouldn’t live alone”.

“I don’t need a roommate”.

“That’s not what Mrs Hudson said”.

“Mrs Hudson is on tranquilizers, Mycroft. You shouldn’t be even listening to her”.

“That’s your fault. You make people go crazy”.

Mycroft leaves behind a piece of paper with a phone number on it. Sherlock sweeps it under the rug and contemplates for hours the interesting shade cast by the skull on the brown tapestry. The nicotine patches are glued to his arms again. This time it’s about a woman in her thirties with a missing scalp and twenty-three bullets in her chest. She was found in Tate Modern, and that was the most interesting part.

“I’d say it was the missing scalp”.

“Stop reading my mind”.

“I’m Sherlock’s irritating conscience, which means yours conscience, so deal with it”.

“Shut up. John is my conscience”.

“But John isn’t there”.

John isn’t there. Right. He probably went shopping. Sherlock shifts on the couch. His phone vibrates.

I’ve seen the tape. Not Tate Modern. Lestrade wants you to call him back. Donovan.

Sherlock text back and within three seconds he’s already downstairs.

I’ll be at the Docks. Lestrade knows how to find me. Where’s John? SH

He’s in the taxi when he gets the reply.

Very funny, freak. Lestrade really insists. Donovan. 

**4.**  
Tuesday afternoon: his apartment, severed head in the fridge, John’s computer on his lap, Mrs Hudson in the kitchen making his something to eat. The hours pass slowly, Tuesday blends into Wednesday, Mrs Hudson opens the fridge and storms off the apartment, screaming, just when the nicotine patches kick in. It’s one a.m. when he gets the text.

I’ve got someone who fits your description. Molly

“Good, old Molly Hooper. She definitely spends too much time in the morgue. You know she has a secret crush on you? Well, of course you do”.

“Watson, you don’t exist”.

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be real”.

Half and hour later Sherlock comes back from the morgue. It’s three in the morning. Everything is just as he left it, except for John. He disappeared. Again. Sherlock reaches out for the nicotine patches. He’s got another case to solve.

Only after seven hours he notices that the bag with groceries is still lying in the hallway. He takes it to the kitchen, makes a cup of coffee and opens John’s laptop. He listens to 34 messages Lestrade had left on his voicemail. He feels the panic creep in as it hits him that Donovan wasn’t joking in her last text. Watson, you bastard.

 **2.**  
Morning, just before seven a.m.: leftovers of scrambled eggs on the plate, smell of gunpowder in the air, windows wide open, books and papers piling on the floor. Sherlock is lying in the middle of this chaos, his arms covered in nicotine patches.

“Not the patches again. I’m really worried about you, Sherlock”. 

“Watson, we’re out of milk”.

Think: why the woman went to Tate Modern of all the places? A meeting? An affair? Not enough. Not a crime of passion. Planned. Why twenty-three bullets? And where’s Crockett in all this?  
Sherlock takes another nicotine patch out of the box and sticks it on his finger. It’s almost like and addiction.

“You were always good at it”

“Don’t tell me what I already know, John”.

The cellphone vibrates. Sherlock reads:

I am Sherlock’s almost-real-addiction. JW

Sherlock opens his eyes and reaches out for the phone. The message is:

Another murder in Tate. Hurry up. Lestrade.

He tears off the nicotine patches, puts on his coat and hides the gun in his left pocket. He’s halfway there when he knows who did it. 

**3.**  
Friday, around three: coat too thin to protect from the cold, old building and an empty room, this revolting man pointing the gun directly at him. There’s a shot, the man bleeds his life out on the floor, Moriarty, he says, but that’s irrelevant now. Lestrade asks him later who was the shooter and Sherlock answers it was him. _I am white, Caucasian male, someone with military training, used to violence but with strong moral principles_ , says the draft saved on his phone. He hides the cell in his left pocket where he hid his gun, but no, he left it in his apartment, under the couch, except he didn’t. Sherlock comes home, opens his laptop and enters on google. He types in ‘John Watson’.

Results: 0

He tries just ‘Watson’.

Results: 0

He remembers what he was doing before he fell asleep. He types in ‘Moriarty’.

Results: 0

‘Sherlock Holmes’

Results: 0

He wakes up. He’s in a taxi. He checks the date, it’s 17th not 15th of November. A memory from before two days is blurred, like the rainy London behind the windshield. He comes home, opens his laptop and enters on google. He types in ‘schizophrenia’, deletes it, types in ‘John Watson’

Results: around 7,540,000

He closes John’s laptop without checking any of them and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: It was my first fanfic in Sherlock BBC fandom, so please leave a note if you enjoyed it :)


End file.
